


Tired Heart

by FandomTrash



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst and Feels, Introspection, M/M, McDonald's, Nico Feels, No Plot/Plotless, Please Kill Me, Poor Nico, Weird Plot Shit, Words, Yknow Percy the Lock Picker, can be seen as Depressed Nico, sorta - Freeform, thanks annabeth, that's a tag; i approve, when suffering writer's block, write a shit drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 19:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13441620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: Nico's heart is so fucking tired.





	Tired Heart

Nico's heart is so tired. Worn and ragged, a little lump of coal within the confines of brittle keratin and bruised, star-infused skin tissues. Nico's lungs are so tired. Drained of courageous breaths, shriveling drastically with each inhale, wheezing with the exertion of exhaling whatever is left of his blasphemous soul. His ribcage only grows more and more fragile, bones rattling a rhythm to a calamitous cacophony of decimation and destruction.

The joys of being a **d e m i g o d**. 

So tired – everything, Nico's entirety, his morality and the remnants of sanity. Maybe that is a stretch, beyond comprehension, imagination, natural limitation. He never had many morals to begin with, growing up in a confined society of downfall and slaughter (propaganda posters pinned on every bare surface, _you will fight for the greater good_ , you will give up **e v e r y t h i n g** for a losing battle.) Soon after a brief dip in icy, pitch waters that stole his life, he was thrown into a casino. Scantily clothed women sashaying their hips, mindless zombies caught in the whirl of gambling and game machines, the unfulfilled promises of _together forever_ of a sister that departed quickly after. Then, there was his father's domain, his lord's kingdom, his king's realm. It all tumbled downhill from there, so really, morality is most certainly questionable.

Sanity? Hand in hand with morality, Nico supposes, but in the end he supposes nothing, because he is so terribly tired. So tired; his heart, his lungs, all those internal necessities that really aren't that necessary due to his lack of motivation to live. Sanity dwindled the moment the first bombshell set off near his hometown. After that, it's that clutching, gut-wrenching, memory-snatching water that's awfully icy and shocking. In succession: blurs of LA lights, Hollywood signs, immoral hands of grown men grabbing, snagging, lingering on him as he brushes through the people for Bianca – _Bianca, sorella, dolcezza_ – only to come up short and loose her again. And once again with his father's domain (Nico's home, his respite, his **v u l n e r a b i l i t y**.)

His heart is so tired. Tired of loving, of fighting, of being torn apart and sewn back up. Maria di Angelo, Bianca di Angelo, Percy Jackson, Hazel Levesque, so on and so on. The faces start to blur, all these people he holds ridiculously close to that little chunk of failure set stubbornly in his chest. His heart needs a break. What's that saying? That one from Shakespeare, that quote from a man beyond _Nico's time?_

“Be still my beating heart,” He mutters, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “Be still my beating heart,” Louder, firmer, hoarser. More desperate, cracking with the desolateness that the statement is only that. A statement, a beg, a plea. Only actions will make it happen, but that's another fault of his: cowardice. And loyalty, too, enough to rival the object of his heart's exhausted desires. “Be still my beating heart.”

The bathroom light is bleak. Opaque, grimy around the edges, a crack splitting the middle length-ways. It reflects a sad boy. You don't need to ask to know he has a chronic case of insomnia; it's written on his face, he walks around looking like he has two fresh, purple shiners under his eyes.

As of late, his eyelashes have been clumped (tears,) red-rimmed and raw from being rubbed at ( _tears_ ,) and in a dull glaze to dark irises ( **t e a r s.** ) Gaunt, sallow. Sharp cheekbones – sharper than usual, a sick sort of prominence to what could be flattering features. Sunken eyes – doldrums, despairing, discouraged – tired. Hungry, in need of a fucking sandwich, or Sally's homemade chicken broth (gods, what Nico would do for some of Sally Jackson's cooking.) Tired, in dire need of a week's worth of sleep, a comfortable mattress.

Lately, his hair's been a mess. More than usual, knotted and snarled despite having gotten it cut last time he left his apartment. It's an undercut now; those are in style, right? Why not conform a little more to the twenty-first century, forget his heritage, wash away the black and white films ingrained into the backs of his eyelids. It stil tangles: lack of brush, lack of care. It's matted a little, on the left, where he's had his head planted to the pillow for the past month or so. He's lucky his father cares enough to pay off most of his bills. For now.

Luck runs out fast for a demigod. Nico is no exception. He's no hero.

“Be still my beating heart.” A broken record, that's what he is, lost in the eyes that blink back at him blankly. His father's eyes, that's what his mother used to tell him. That's what he remembers her telling him, among anything else. How much he was growing into his father's features. Never her. Never the great Maria di Angelo, the bar singer, the town's beauty, the town's true gem.

Makes sense. Nico probably wouldn't want to compare the spawn of Satan to himself, had he been in her shoes. Still; hurts a little. Jet black hair, thick eyelashes, sharp mouth and cutting gazes. His hair isn't mahogany, rich and complimentary to dark olive skin, his eyes aren't soft caramels or chocolates, his smiles aren't soothing and gentle. It hurts to look at himself. It hurts people to look at him. He is truly Death's son. A madness making itself home in his stare, a malevolence evident in the edges of his frame, a misfortune intertwined with his soul.

All he needs now is godhood and he'll fill all the qualifications to be the next ruler of the Underworld.

Upon lifting his shirt, Nico finds that his stomach concaves dramatically. Pale flesh taught over his torso, hugging the harsh line ridge of his coltish hips, the bottom of his constricting ribcage. Scars litter his flesh; years of fighting, war, simple survival and the primitive instinct to **l - v e**. (He doesn't know what the second letter could be; to live or to love, but never both, no that is too taxing. He'd die from both.) He pinches some of the skin near his stomach, pressing harshly his thumb and pointer finger together. His heart leaps at the fact that there's crescent-shaped welts blooming red from where his nails dug in. He doesn't feel a thing. Maybe he's suffering anhedonia.

> an·he·do·ni·a
> 
> /ˌanhēˈdōnēə /
> 
> _noun  
>  _ inability to feel pleasure.

A book taught him that word, translated to him from an eloquent mouth that shared a face with moonshine, opal eyes and a voice weaved from spidersilk. Annabeth – Percy's lover. The true lover, the Persephone to his Hades, but on kinder terms and a better agreement.

Nico's stomach churns, turns, twist, knots at the idea of Annabeth. Probably one of the prettiest girls he's ever met, of course not surpassing his precious Hazel, but a close second. Pretty, precocious, profound Annabeth. A compliment to Percy. Passionate, pernicious, pestilential Percy.

He clenches his jaw, letting his shirt drop. Without another glance to the mirror, his feet carry him back across to his bed. Nico's never needed much, never taken much space. Makes sense, considering it means less space to waste, as that is what he is; a waste of space. A studio apartment; one general living area with a closed off bathroom. A curtain dividing where his bed is from the rest of the apartment.

He has come to the conclusion that he is dead weight, mindlessly skirting over the floorboards that creak, the only whine of complaint coming from his skeleton itself. Even then, only he has the ability to hear it. As far as his neighbors are aware, nobody lives here. The whispers creep through paper-thin drywall, from the old ditty next door and the roommates below. The roommates – jocks, thickheaded numbskulls, assholes, jerks – they think he's a ghost. The occasional times he knocks over something and it makes a dull thump. The ditty is deaf.

Nobody lives here. Nico doesn't account for somebody.

He always new he was destined to **n o t h i n g.**

The mattress' springs don't even jostle when he falls back into the spot he was in. left side pressed to his pillow, eyes dragged to a half-close as he stares aimlessly. His legs curl up to his chest, arms sprawled across the little space in front of him. His fingers; twigs, bony sticks that pop at the joints when flexed. There's perfect spacing between them for another hand, to intertwine, to lace with his own hand and offer life. No such thing happens. Nico has never been so desperate, so tearful, so distraught for something to interdigitate with.

> in·ter·dig·i·tate
> 
> /ˌin(t)ərˈdijətāt /
> 
> _verb  
>  _ to become interlocked like the fingers of holding hands

Another word, another mouthful, another yearning to add to his mental list. He curls up a little more, pretends that _no_ , no, that isn't sunlight filtering through his blinds, that isn't the pale sun of winter creeping over New York, _no, he hasn't been awake for the past week and a half, running on nothing but his own self destruction_.

He's very good at lying, you see. Too terribly tired, so sorrowfully sad, but baleful and bitter enough that it translates to deception and devotion to mask his tumult, turmoil. “Be still my...my beating...” His jaw clenches.

He listens, he taps into his abilities to seek out life-force, and finds nothing. For a solid minute, there is nothing. The waining of his soul flickering in and out of existence, a forceful tug in his stomach for him to go _home_ , but then...then, there – there it is, the faintest fucking sound, the damnedest disastrous sound that makes it fall quiet a second longer – a skipped pulse, a hiccup in the pattern:

**b – b u m p**

The sad thing is that the hype is all for nothing, since nobody cares whether that little beat is there or not.

“Be still my beating fucking heart.” Angry, tightly-wrapped anguish, bottled-up agony. Disappointment. A heavy sigh leaves him sagging into the mattress a little more, pallid skin mottling with the white bedsheets. Depression looms gloomily in the room, a suffocating quality that presses harder and harder against him.

“Hamlet, right?” _That voice._

It makes his heart stammer.

Perseus Goddamn Jackson.

“Romeo and Juliet, actually.”

No, his voice doesn't croak.

Percy hums contemplatively, carefully pushing the curtain so he can duck through, but not enough to let all the light stream through. He halts by the division; a quick survey of the surroundings. A bed shoved to the corner, and not much else but a box full of meager belongings. Still, the fucker smiles like he isn't the light of Nico's life.

“My bad. Didn't stick to school long enough to care.” Despite himself, Nico smirks. Small, barely noticeable, but the bane of his life has an eye for these things. His adorable, puppy-dog smile grows tenfold. “Makes two of us,” Nico mutters. It doesn't make the most sense, since Percy dropped out of high school out of choice, Nico never actually made it that far before the earth was ripped from beneath him.

Percy hums softly, shuffling over and sitting on the edge of the mattress, “Been looking for you for a while, y'know.” Nico only raises an eyebrow – taken either as an _oh yeah?_ or an _oh yeah?_ One disbelieving, one inviting him to continue. Percy's rough hand comes to rest on his shoulder – careful, cautious, consciously aware that Nico will shatter if he is not the aforementioned two.

“Yeah, took a while. Found you though, right under my nose.” New York, same area Percy used to live in. “Makes sense,” He rambles, hand moving from Nico's shoulder to patiently untangle knots, “Hiding in plain sight; residents said they didn't know anybody lived here.”

And _gods,_ his voice. That low, gentle timbre, a melody that Nico could listen to on repeat and never get tired of. A voice that is so uniquely _Percy_ , unforgettable, onerous in the knowledge that Nico will never get it out of his head. Soothing and emotive, evocative, elating to hear. A fact that Percy is alive without the need to tap into the soulstream that all interconnects and search out for that one, blindingly brilliant soul: euphony, that's what Percy's voice is.

> eu·pho·ny
> 
> /ˈyo͞ofənē /
> 
> _noun  
>  _ the quality of being pleasing to the ear, especially through a harmonious combination of words.

Nico's so tired. Percy, lovely as he is, the love of life that he is, is draining. Taxing, emotionally, mentally, physically. “Want a drink or something?” Nico asks, starting to sit up. Gotta keep up the appearance of normalcy, of being okay. It's harder to do in person than it is over Iris Message to a busy sister who wont really notice that he's been crying periodically at three in the morning consecutively over the work she has to deal with.

But Percy pushes him back down with that same exasperatedly fond smile, shaking his head, “Chill. You look like you've never heard of sleep.” Nico, unused to this treatment, fidgets on the mattress, “But -” Another shake of Percy's head and a pointed look snaps his mouth shut. Nico watches him squint for a minute, chewing unspoken words in his mouth before chuckling wryly, “What's that word? Battling against an imaginary enemy.” Without missing a beat, Nico blurts, “Sciamachy.”Percy clicks his fingers, “Yeah. That. I think I've got the panacea to your sciamachy, buddy.”

> pan·a·ce·a
> 
> /ˌpanəˈsēə /
> 
> _noun  
>  _ a solution or remedy for all difficulties or problems.

Nico snorts, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't move. “Indulge me, Jackson.” He does, because this is Percy Jackson, the walking epitome of _giving, not taking_. He rummages around in a backpack Nico didn't notice him bring in, producing a Happy Meal. Nico's mouth fucking _waters_ ; he wont be surprised if he is, in fact, drooling.

He hasn't tasted the heavens in so long.

Percy gains this stupidly attractive smile – not a smirk, not a cruel twist of his mouth, an accepting, encouraging _smile_ – as he holds it out for Nico to take. All his, for the taking, the offering. Nico can't help but think that the look on Percy's face is of a follower holding out an offering to a god. Medusa to Poseidon, the Thiasus to Dionysus...Nico to Percy. (He's fucking **h o p e l e s s**.)

He takes the Happy Meal, the greasy goods, holy heaven and lords above, food of the true creators. The smell is overwhelming; he feels like a scroungy mutt snuffling for a leftover hotdog in the dumpsters. “Thanks.” He means it. Percy grins even brighter; as if sunlight is emitting from his mouth, “Figured you'd be hungry, so.” Of course he did; definitely Sally Jackson's boy. One thing that Nico will be certain of when it comes to both McDonald's and the son of Poseidon? He'll never experience anagapesis with either. An ugly truth.

> ana·ga·pe·sis
> 
> /ənaɡəpeˈsis/
> 
> _noun  
>  _ no longer feeling affection for someone you once loved.

They'll both always be his saviors, McDonald's and Percy Jackson. Though one overrules the other, but which one is up for debate (Percy, it'll always be Percy, Percy, _the love of his life._ )

Nico doesn't remember even opening the box, but when he looks down, he finds that he's licking grease off his fingers and the hamburger wrapper is empty, fries gone. All that remains is the plastic toy. He blinks, bewildered. Percy chuckles softly, taking away the trash and setting it on the floor, “Guess you were hungry.” His stomach gurgles loudly in response; a heat flooding Nico's face.

But when he looks up, green eyes aren't disgusted at his lack of manners, aren't grossed out by his lack of self-control. Happy; peaceful, pleased. Nico nods, hair messier by the motion. “Yeah,” He allows, “Guess I was.”

Eventually, Percy gently nudges him to move over a little, reclining against the wall beside him, “You been okay?” No, not really. Clearly, Percy knows this, but he's ever the conversationalist. Nico shrugs, “Been better.” Honesty is the best policy. Especially with Percy, because lying just hurts more. Even if Nico is good at it. An arm gets wrapped around his shoulders, a closed mouth humming against his scalp, “Sorry to hear that. Think you'd be better with some company?” Dryly, Nico drawls, “Heard misery loves it.”

They share a smile.

It's been so long since Nico's smiled.

Percy just... _does_ that.

For a moment, they just marvel at each other, bask in the camaraderie that settles easily over the gloom. It throws Percy into a bout of light chuckles, so besotted. It makes his stomach churn once more. “I'm glad,” Percy breathes, as if he's been whisked away by a greater power, an epiphany, a clarity. Nico wants to know what that is. “I'm glad, because I've been just as lonely.” Nico isn't as irked as he should be.

He only nods, settling back into the bed, expression open. Bare, raw, true. **H e l p l e s s**.

And Percy's just there, taking in his ever detail like he takes in water, soaking up every fault and flaw like it's the water that rolls off of his form. But never his eyes, no, Percy never looks him in the eyes once. Maybe it's because he'll know the defacement there, the apathy meant for gods, the age meant for immortals. No, Percy doesn't look into his eyes, and Nico is fine with that. He can't bring himself to look into Percy's either, and perhaps that is okay for now. Fine, dandy, peachy. He stills when Percy raises a hand, the barely-there scrape of the callous of his thumb smoothing over his cheek, “Lonely together?”

“Sounds good.”

In the few minutes Percy has been here, Nico has regained the feeling that he could, theoretically and possibly literally, split the earth. Hyper aware of the blood simmering in his veins, every shallow _b-bump_ of his heartbeat, the lazy, sloppily skipped beats whenever Percy opens his mouth. The feel of oceanic eyes scouring his face for giveaways, cues, weaknesses.

Nico's heart is so tired, so very fucking tired of loving Percy. Of loving in general, of feeling so harshly – a full-throttle experience, all in or not at all. But this will do for now, he thinks, this will suffice. Just a friend, somebody who cares – like Percy, who knows the early grave Nico has dug for himself. Percy has brought roses to place on his coffin, to tell him he loves him.

All he can think is that you don't tell somebody you love them at their funeral. Sometimes, that's the one thing that would've made them stay.

Then Percy is sitting up, staring at him with gritty determination that makes Nico's gut clench, coil, convulse. A set to his jaw, eyes blazing so brightly – intimidating, so much that Nico drops his gaze immediately. (Nico's heart is so tired.) Nico feels himself shift, body attuning itself to the rhythm of Percy's pulse, how it skyrockets, jittering like a jackrabbit on speed in his chest. Nico can feel it, but if he's quiet enough in the still room, he can hear it too. His own heart, a little clump of exhaustion, makes not a sound.

“ - kiss you?”

Come again?

He blinks, heart reluctant to continue beating as if fearing to disrupt his concentration. Percy saying 'kiss' can be multiple things, and none of them are good, all of them leave Nico to shake and cry some more in the early hours. “Say that again?” Percy does, with ease, a stoic patience that Nico hasn't seen on anybody but Reyna.

“Can I kiss you?”

He knows, in that moment, that he is Percy's cynosure. The entirety of the older demigod's focus, tunnel vision. The emotions so deep and apparent in Percy's face, not just in his eyes, and Nico never thought he'd be able to hurdle the challenge that is opia.

> o·pi·a
> 
> /ˈōpēə/
> 
> _noun  
>  _ the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye.
> 
>  
> 
> cy·no·sure
> 
> /ˈsīnəˌSHo͝o(ə)r /
> 
> _noun  
>  _ a person or thing that is the center of attention or admiration.

Nico can only nod. He's forgotten how to function, brain short-circuiting whilst his mouth works without sound. In all, he snaps his mouth shut – teeth clacking with a resounding snap. His heart is so tired, so fucking tired, but there's a more...purposeful, definite, meaningful **b – b u m p** that makes his skeleton creak noisily.

Percy purses his lips, voice even a level. “Verbal,” He says, softly, quietly, firmly, “I need a verbal answer, Nico.” So Nico speaks, a gasp, a choke, a whimper. But it's answer enough, and then Percy's closing in on him, not closing those bright eyes until their mouths crash together messily. Clean and curt has never been either of their styles, so it's not really any surprise.

It's a kiss. Nothing special, no fireworks, no sparkles, no elation with the fact that oh shit, Nico is kissing his downfall. A kiss.

Simple, sweet, short.

Still, Nico smiles a little when Percy pulls away. It was just a kiss, nothing special, but it's special enough. Makes his heart do another little **b – b u m p** and something shiver up his spine. Percy cards fingers through his hair, “Wanted to do that for a while.” Nico raises an eyebrow, snorting, “Like you've been looking for me for a while?” Percy nods, gentle, “Yeah. Exactly like that. Hand in hand.” Involuntarily, Nico's breath quivers. Catches on the back of his throat, makes his whole body judder like a malfunction. No tears, though. For once.

Nico's heart is so tired, but it's beating. Little lump of coal, heating up and pulsating. Slowly, Nico feels like he's being rejuvenated. Percy settles back down beside him, contented hum reverberating through the room, “Guess being lonely has something to do with that, too.”

Languidly, Nico stretches until it feels like everything is going to pop out of place, before turning to Percy with curious eyes, “What about Annabeth?” There's a smile – depreciating, deflective – “We broke up months ago.” Nico hasn't been in contact with anybody Hazel (Reyna, on occasion,) for a year. “Oh.” Because what else is he going to say? Nico's never been a people person. Never understood social cues.

Percy just chuckles, “Inevitable. Still friends, still love each other. Just no how I love y -” He coughs, cutting himself off. “Not like I feel for you.” Is what he finally decides on. That's okay. Nico was too overwhelmed to use _love_ once. Still is. 'feel for you' is as good as either of them will get. Nico's okay with that.

The room is still, quiet. Peaceful has never been a quality that this little studio apartment had ever offered Nico before, but for now, it appears Hestia is merciful in making this place feel more homely. He's always had a soft spot for her; at her lonesome hearth with her longing smiles. He sends a thank you out to the universe, hopes her clever ears will hear it. An under appreciated goddess. “Sounds like somebody I know,” Percy mutters. It appears Nico mused aloud.

Nico rolls his eyes, “If you're implying _me_ , then you are sorely mistaken.” He sighs, brushing hair from Nico's face – fuck, he needs a shower, gross – before opening his mouth, “Nobody noticed that you helped so much during the wars.” Nico shrugs, “What about you? You clearly noticed, if you're telling me this.” Percy sighs, “That's not the point.” Again, Nico only shrugs, “I've had some recognition. I didn't even need that.”

They fall into companionable silence, and that's all Nico needs.

It's not a happy ending, far from it, with a long road to continue down, but Percy's here. Maybe this is as close as Nico will ever get to a eucatastrophe. This is close enough. Nico's always come short of something wonderful, but he's gotten used to that pattern. If he gets something at all, he'll gladly take it. Percy happens to be something he's wanted for fucking years. Looks like somebody's smiling down on him. (Cupid wont be happy.)

> eu·ca·tas·tro·phe
> 
> /ˌyo͞okəˈtastrəfē/
> 
> _noun  
>  _ a sudden and favorable resolution of events in a story; a happy ending.

(He notices that Percy looks at him, like Frank looks at Hazel: as if Nico is clinquant, something precious. Maybe that's not as disgusting and sappy as Nico used to think.)

**Author's Note:**

> hey howdy hey that's me being active on this hellsite. procrastination isn't really an excuse, since I've been busy, but hey. i'm not dead, at least. or am i? who knows at this point. hope you guys are all awesome and haven't been blowing cash on three eight-packs of Red Bull like i have been doing for the past few days.


End file.
